


you know i hate to dance (still you ask)

by dakohtah



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: But mostly Two Soft Fellas, Canon-Typical Violence, Featuring, M/M, Mutual Pining, Petulant RK900, Soft Gavin Reed, a collection of drabbles but with plot, connor and hank have adopted RK900 wholesale, idiots to lovers, lil baby chapters, some hurt/comfort elements, tldr RK900 starts wearing gloves and no one will get off his case about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakohtah/pseuds/dakohtah
Summary: “I,” RK900 began. He wasn’t sure why he’d stopped; he certainly hadn’t intended to. In his HUD, he watched the probability of getting caught in a lie pulse from 50.03% to 76.34%. “I am attempting to make a fashion statement?”Tick.93.00%.Fuck.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 40
Kudos: 139





	1. SEPT 10TH, 2041

**SEPT 10TH** , 2041

“Hey, dipshit,—” The case files RK900 had been reviewing were interrupted by a small HUD notification: 

SPEAKING: GAVIN REED / PARTNER

“—why the fuck’re you wearing gloves?”

RK900 paused but didn’t look over his shoulder. The volume and direction of the detective’s voice indicated that he was approximately one and one-half meters behind him, slightly to the right. Creative endeavors didn’t come naturally, but if he focused, he could imagine Gavin’s view of his LED spinning a brief yellow as he considered. Lie or truth.

His preconstructive software unhelpfully informed him that a truthful answer had a 44.35% likelihood of ending in a physical altercation. An 87.09% likelihood of ending Gavin requesting an alternative partner.

Only a 0.12% likelihood of Gavin shooting him on the spot, he mused. But a likelihood, nonetheless.

“I,” RK900 began. He wasn’t sure why he’d stopped; he certainly hadn’t intended to. In his HUD, he watched the probability of getting caught in a lie pulse from 50.03% to 76.34%. “I am attempting to make a fashion statement?” 

Tick. 

93.00%.

Fuck.

The resulting silence spanned an excruciating 7.688 seconds. 

“Yeah, fuck off.” RK900 heard, rather than saw, Gavin begin to plod forward toward his desk.

A hand came into view first—it was well-calloused, RK900 cataloged, dismissing the case files as his eyes tracked the movement—before a finger prodded, not ungently, at the supple leather on the back of RK900’s hand. “So,” Gavin grumbled, “Y’wanna tell me what happened, iron man? You fuck your exoskeleton up fighting crime, or what?”

An alert appeared to the direct left of the hand, which was now poking at his knuckles:

GAVIN HAS MADE AN **INCORRECT ASSUMPTION**

RK900 did not remove his hand, although he should have. He was embarrassed to find that his recording software had captured a frame of his visual feed, instead. RK900 could feel the malfunction in his synthetic skin respond to the pressure, or the proximity, or the— _something_. Like feeling a ripple across water as the skin receded. At least it wasn’t visible.

He was suddenly very aware of Gavin’s body heat, estimated at 98.8 degrees Fahrenheit, as the detective leaned over his shoulder. “I do not want to talk about it, Detective Reed,” he said. It was the truth.

Gavin grunted, but ultimately withdrew his hand. RK900 felt him brush past his shoulder—felt his skin _react_ to it—as the human moved to his end of their conjoined space.

“Gonna see eventually,” he muttered, hefting his full weight into the chair with a huff before settling, “Might as well tell me so I don’t—I dunno, vomit when I see your mangled robohands.”

Gavin was already focused on his computer, likely assessing their case—rapidly cooling, with no new leads—as the android had been, so RK900 didn’t feel obligated to put his foot any more firmly into his mouth than he already had. The silence seemed brooding, at least on his partner’s end, but RK900 found it comfortable. He reestablished his link to the terminal and attempted to continue his review.

INCOMING SIGNAL: RK800 #313 248 317-52

ACCEPT CONNECTION? Y/N

**Y** /N

_RK900, why_ are _you wearing gloves?_

Feelings were difficult to adjust to and even harder to properly identify, in RK900’s experience. The feeling that arose at the sound of Connor’s voice—so much like his own—was at least one he was familiar with. It felt like a flashfire, like pouring lighter fluid into an open flame.

END CONNECTION? Y/N

RK900 only hesitated for a moment. The trouble with the RK line was that, as androids designed for investigation and infiltration, they tended to be terrible gossipmongers.

**Y** /N

Irritation was one of RK900’s least favorite emotions so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i was sick of looking at this in my documents! so I'm posting it to enforce some sort of daggone accountability. chapter entries are probably going to stay short, bc i'm vibing with the style for now.


	2. SEPT 13TH, 2041

**SEPT 13TH** , 2041

RK900 was chopping a carrot into ¼ inch pieces the next time it came up in conversation. It would have been untrue to suggest that he had not expected it. He simply had not wanted to expect it.

“So, uh. Connor mentioned you were tryin’ somethin’ new, right?” The small furrow between Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s eyebrows, accompanied by the tense set of his shoulders and inorganic pauses in his speech patterns, informed RK900 that the lieutenant was uncomfortable. “What with the, uh,” Hank held up his hand and made an aborted gesture with it, “you know.”

RK900 knew. “Yes.” 

He slowed his motor function by half, as it was suddenly imperative that his hands remained busy. He had a growing suspicion that the weight coiling inexplicably in his abdomen meant he was also uncomfortable. Hank’s answering silence only compounded the feeling. “I am attempting to make a fashion statement,” RK900 added with practiced certainty.

The ensuing pause confirmed RK900’s suspicion that the conversation was going extraordinarily poorly. RK900 usually enjoyed spending time at the Anderson household. He had been manually deviated by Connor approximately two-and-one-half months after the android revolution of 2038, once he’d been discovered in CyberLife’s warehouse. He’d stayed with Connor and Hank for nearly a year after, until legislation was passed that would allow androids to legally rent and own property. Even once he’d left, though, RK900 had a longstanding Friday night engagement that Hank had begun to call ‘family dinner’. 

As RK900 was an android, he did not actually have any true familial relations. Despite his deviancy, it was difficult to ward off the sense of foreboding that accompanied words that were incompatible with his initial programming: words like friend, brother, _family_.

Even so, spending time with Connor and Hank was—nice.

RK900 enjoyed it.

Usually.

It was then that Connor re-entered the kitchen with theatrical noisiness, as if attempting to announce his presence. The android had changed from his formal workwear into a hooded DPD sweatshirt, which he had informed RK900 was more appropriate for informal settings. Connor had been that way—very _intentionally_ human—for as long as RK900 had been active.

“RK900, you have never expressed interest in altering your clothing choices,” Connor leaned into the kitchen wall as he spoke, a picture of staged nonchalance. “We only want to be sure that you’re alright.”

“ _We only want to be sure that you’re alright,_ ” RK900 unflatteringly mimicked as he poured the sliced carrots into Hank’s lightly rusted pot. He turned to face the pair properly, although he leaned on Hank’s counter with much less polish than his predecessor had. “Have you not encouraged me to branch out and explore my deviancy? A pair of gloves is not equivocal to a malfunction, Connor.” 

It was, objectively, the truth.

Connor, impotently, pinched the bridge of his nose as if warding away an imagined headache, “You’ve spent too much time with Reed. You’re impossible.”

“And you are intrusive.” 

“Would it be so bad to confide in me? Believe it or not, RK900, I have some experience that you may lack.”

RK900 felt as though he might overheat. He knew, rationally, that being Connor’s successor didn’t make him better. Not in a post-deviant society.

But for all of his advances, why should he be the one to malfunction? The idea that he would confess any vulnerability to a lesser model was laughable at best. Admitting his processors were attempting to interface with a human—with _Gavin_ —was nothing short of shameful.

Because Gavin hated androids.

The last thing RK900 needed was for Gavin to see, with his own eyes, evidence of his partner's inhumanity. Worse still if he were to understand what the interface meant.

RK900 did not take a moment to breathe, but he did lock his jaw to subvert the impulse. Connor was nosy, but RK900 was 91.88% certain that he was not malicious.

Even so, the prick of irritation remained, and he mocked, “ _I have some experience that you may lack._ ”

“You are so _childish_ —"

“And you’re both givin’ me a fuckin’ migraine,” Hank grunted, moving toward the stovetop armed with a wooden spoon. He shook it once at RK900, “You’re not foolin’ anybody, kid. If you need help with—” Hank faltered, waving the spoon in the direction of RK900’s hands, “—whatever’s goin’ on, you let us know. You got it handled? Just fuckin’ _tell us_ you got it handled.”

Hank turned to point his weapon accusingly at Connor, “And if he says he has it handled, you lay off with the—the fuckin’ _helicopter parenting_.” With a huff, he began to stir absently at the stew. 

A new objective appeared in RK900’s HUD:

INFORM LT. ANDERSON THAT THE STEW **DOES NOT NEED TO BE STIRRED**

“I’ve got it handled,” RK900 lied instead.

“Well,” Hank nodded in approval, which absurdly eased the heaviness in RK900’s chest, “there ya go, Con. He’s got it handled.”

It was quiet for a moment as Connor looked over RK900. RK900, in a fit of spitefulness, looked back.

INCOMING SIGNAL: RK800 #313 248 317-52

ACCEPT CONNECTION? Y/N

**Y** /N

_Sorry, Mother, Father said no more helicopter parenting_ , RK900 interjected, a little unkindly. He reasoned that it would be best to cut Connor off before the android had a chance to work himself up. 

Connor’s face dropped slightly.

 _I just—RK900, I’m here for you if you need me to be. That’s all._

CONNECTION ENDED BY: RK800 #313 248 317-52

RK900 attempted, with limited success, to squelch any feelings of guilt.

It was a particularly long family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one:
> 
> RK900: is this...An Emotion? disgusting. i must guard this secret with my life.
> 
> .....impulse control???? never met her
> 
> posting early bc I was doing some revisions and felt bad about the bitty chapter I left y'all on! featuring a paaaarticularly snooty RK900. he is just. a Prideful creature. he cannot help this.
> 
> big, big thanks to everyone who has skimmed, read, kudo'd, or commented!! i love u like the sun. i don't have a beta so please feel free to alert me to any big goofs


	3. NOV 4TH, 2041

**NOV 4TH** , 2041

The first time RK900 mentioned the malfunction of his own volition, it was at the New Jericho Android Hospital. In truth, RK900 wasn’t sure that ‘hospital’ was an accurate description of a repair center housed out of a warehouse shell, but he supposed it may have been named for the benefit of Detroit’s human population.

“Okay,” the android technician began, with a cursory glance over RK900, “have your systems indicated any malfunction in your synthetic skin? Any error reports?”

“My systems are reporting at optimal capacity,” RK900 faltered for a moment, “but I’ve occasionally lost control of my synthetic skin’s output. The overlay recedes when exposed to pressure or proximity. This malfunction is generally followed by mild system overheat and involuntary frame capture. The error has been ongoing for approximately sixty-one days.”

The technician nodded briskly, their LED circling a brief yellow, “Can you demonstrate this for me?”

RK900 was an android, and thereby unable to flush as a human might have at the question. Instead, the bloom of shame rising hot in RK900’s chest was acknowledged by only himself. He reminded himself that clearing his throat was unnecessary before reporting, “The malfunction only occurs in reaction to certain stimuli. I’ve—I have attempted to isolate the error using my system’s self-repair protocol, but.” RK900 found he had nothing to add to the statement, so he said nothing.

From across the small room, the technician frowned briefly. They extended a hand, synthetic skin receding in invitation, “Would you mind showing me?”

“No,” RK900 said quickly, “No, thank you. I would prefer not to.” He was hyper-aware of the file folder, simply labeled ‘Gavin’, that would provide ample evidence of the phenomena. It seemed both too intimate and wholly inappropriate to share in any capacity.

“Hm,” the technician seemed unimpressed, “in that case, would you mind describing the malfunction’s antecedents?”

“The malfunction generally occurs upon exposure to—” RK900 did not take in a breath, because he did not need to, “—an individual. A _specific_ individual. I have not experienced any difficulties in maintaining my synthetic skin around others and have encountered no obstacles when interfacing select data with other androids.” He felt as though his hands should be busy, but he could identify no tasks that would be appropriate to complete.

“I see,” there was another flash of yellow across their temple, “well, I have good news. Your malfunction is not an especially uncommon issue in deviants.” The technician stepped closer, angling a sympathetic look in his direction, “Involuntary interface is among the most common symptoms of deviancy. It is your system’s response to feelings of intimacy and trust—an instinctual response, almost. If you are concerned about your privacy, it’s my pleasure to assure you that a full-data interface will not occur without a mutual interface response from the other party. If your friend is also experiencing the involuntary interface phenomenon, I suppose you could avoid direct contact with their exposed chassis.” 

RK900, quite involuntarily, swallowed thickly. The technician paused for a moment before continuing, “New emotional experiences can be daunting for many deviants, but I would like to assure you that most enjoy the experience of interfacing with trusted partners. It has been reported through deviant testimony to strengthen the existing bond, increase the recipient’s sense of well-being, and promote integration into post-revolution society.”

As with most android facilities, the New Jericho Android Hospital was unspeakably small. The city of Detroit had granted androids the ability to open android repair centers, but local government had cited the population’s diminished need for space and comfort to pressure New Jericho into purchasing smaller lots to house any android-based services. While RK900’s repair assessment was taking place in a generous 6’x5’ office, equipped with two chairs both androids had opted out of utilizing, he felt as though he might’ve had more space in a broom closet. 

In recent months, RK900 was becoming quite accustomed to the feeling of embarrassment. Having his bodily functions explained to him as if he were an imbecile was—a low he felt entirely unprepared for, to say the least. _Thanks,_ a memory file of Hank’s voice resounded, _I hate it._

Even so, RK900 needed repairs. Having emotions did not make him slave to them. 

He pressed on with a diplomacy he hadn't been designed to achieve, “Thank you, but your unsolicited advice is not applicable. All data on record indicates that this _response_ —" he spat the word, "—occurs exclusively between deviant partners.” He paused as the technician’s LED gave a single flicker, but ultimately did not comment on it, “This is—at any rate, the relationship is not intimate in any capacity. I would simply like to regain full function of my synthetic skin." RK900 unclenched his hands before adding, "Please.”

The LED circled yellow once, twice, and a third time. The technician’s face, inhumanly smooth, betrayed nothing as they spoke, “You are an RK900 model. Do you have a preferred name?”

“RK900.” RK900 was never assigned a name, and he didn’t much want one. So many deviants wanted so badly to be human. To seem human. Designed for military utilization, RK900 couldn’t integrate with humanity even if he had wished to. 

And he hadn’t, not truly. RK900 couldn’t allow himself to wish for impossible things. 

“Good to meet you, RK900. You can call me Lei. As you know, you were the most advanced model that CyberLife designed before production ceased. While we have access to diagnostic technology that may match yours, we—” the android trailed off. Lei looked a little sad, then, which only increased RK900’s discomfort. “I would be glad to run our advanced diagnostic scans, to be sure. But, RK900, if your systems do not report an error, it is still likely to be the involuntary interface phenomenon triggered by your deviancy. You might choose to leave your chassis exposed at points that are uncovered by clothing if you would prefer the reaction be more subtle, but we cannot prevent it entirely,” they said.

RK900 did not sigh, or groan, or scream when the diagnostic tests returned clear, but neither did he deactivate his synthetic skin. 

RK900 kept his gloves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas, i swear the upcoming chapters do feature one (1) rat man detective. i was just put on this earth to do three chapters of exposition and character study on a robot man who was barely written into a video game, I don't make the rules.
> 
> rk is 2 things and 2 things only: unsubtle and dramatic in equal parts.
> 
> still haven't settled on a regular update schedule! i'm just gonna see where the wind takes me. no beta, please let me know if you see any goofs!


	4. NOV 11TH, 2041

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: non-explicit discussion of suicide, related gore near end of chapter
> 
> the gore is pretty minute, basically a sentence-mention of crime scene blood-splatter, but it's after the line "The photo wasn’t pleasant to look at, but RK900 was hard-pressed to find something in the house that was."
> 
> be safe and love yourself!

**NOV 11TH** , 2041

“I just don’t fuckin’—” Gavin let out a long groan, his eyes sheltered in his palms, “—Christ. This is, what, the twentieth goddamned android suicide in two months?”

“The twenty-third,” RK900 corrected weakly, analyzing the case details in his HUD. He pressed his palms down hard along the sides of the desk he stood over, and he did not grit his teeth.

While Hank and Connor had been unofficially designated as Detroit’s android crime unit, the number of android suicides in the last three months had begun to skyrocket. As suspicions of foul play circulated in New Jericho, RK900 and Gavin were assigned to investigate all android suicide cases in the city.

It was little more than a political show to appease the android population, RK900 suspected. Insofar, the suicides had largely been—

“Just fuckin’ offed herself, didn’t she.” Gavin’s voice was muffled, head resting on his desk, but RK900’s advanced audio receptors were able to translate it with minimal effort. “RK, please, just tell ‘em to send a beat cop. It wasn’t no fuckin’ murder.” 

Well—historically, Gavin was correct. Most, excepting only one, of their cases had simply been suicides. From the outset, this case did not look particularly different. Standard self-destruction by blunt force impact. Found, just moments too late, by neighbors who could hear through the thin walls of the android housing complex.

The deceased was a female android, model AP700. She had been among the rapidly increasing number of androids who had legally adopted a first and last name: hers was Nell Hoskins. Recent photographs of the deceased indicated that she had received a full facial reconstruction from New Jericho’s technicians roughly one year prior—this was, again, becoming the norm among post-revolutionary deviants. It seemed to RK900 that they would do anything to seem less other. Anything to seem more human. 

Privately, RK900 suspected that it was the _wanting_ that killed them, more than anything.

And Gavin, who was so loud and strong and effortlessly human, was expected to follow behind the carnage and bear witness to the consequences brought by Marcus and Kamski in equal measure. Expected to feel pity for a population he hardly believed could feel to begin with. 

RK900 supposed they made quite a pair. An anti-android detective and an obsolete military machine who, unsurprisingly, found himself wanting all the same.

The thought was enough to tighten his jaw. Photos of the dead woman smiled back, trapped as if in amber and so, so close to being human. 

For a brief and unbecoming moment, RK900 nearly hated her for it. 

It was a foolish wish, befitting of children. Of humans. If nothing else could be said for him, RK900 knew very keenly what he was, and what he could not be.

A strong hand clapped his shoulder, and RK900 did not flinch. “Hey,” Gavin let the touch linger, squeezing briefly when RK900 didn’t turn to face him. RK900 knew, he knew, the human couldn’t see the malfunction undulating beneath his turtleneck, but heat— _shame, shame, shame_ —flared through him all the same. 

Another squeeze, but a little harder, “I said _hey_ , dipshit. Jesus, you blue-screening on me or what?”  
“I am functioning at optimal capacity, Detective Reed.”

“Then look at me, for God’s sake, I’m right the fuck here,” Gavin snapped, his hand dropping away. He cursed under his breath, but continued a little softer, “S’like pulling teeth with you sometimes, you pile of bolts. RK, c’mon, look at me.”

Begrudgingly, RK900 did.

And he wasn’t particularly surprised by the sight, if he was entirely honest. Gavin had always been always beautiful; it would be redundant to be taken aback by it, and yet—

It was that his eyes could capture light like water. Mundane, really. But somehow, it seemed like something new, something precious no matter how frequently RK900 saw it. Now, they were sparking like flint with his head tilted up _just-so_ to allow him to catch the android’s eyes when he turned, and RK900 thought he was _breathtaking_.

Gavin shuffled on his feet for a moment, and RK900 traced his gaze as it flitted restlessly across RK900’s sparse workspace. They must’ve snagged on something, because he said, “Jesus Christ,—” Gavin grabbed at the android’s hands, fruitlessly working to unclasp them from the desk’s edges, “—ease up. Don’t break the damn thing in half.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten that he was holding it. “My apologies.”

Gavin’s hand hovered until RK900 released his grip, experimentally flexing his fingers. RK900’s extremities were incapable of feeling stiff, but he was surprised to see that the pressure had torn the palm of his glove.

Two millimeters of exposure, likely indiscernible from Gavin’s distance, but it was enough for the white of RK900’s chassis to wink up at him. A reminder.

He closed his fist against it.

“Listen, I—” Gavin paused, his face twisting into a scowl. He caught RK900’s eye and huffed before continuing, “I ain’t no fuckin’ android, alright?”

RK900 quirked a brow, “I’d have never guessed.”

He received a punch on his shoulder for his effort, “No, _fuck_ , it’s—I wasn’t finished, dipshit. I’m saying I probably don’t, like— _get it_ , or whatever. And, unlike you, I can’t just read your robo-vitals to Sherlock a diagnosis out of you. But,” Gavin’s eyes flashed again, and something electric jumped in RK900’s core because he was beautiful, beautiful, _beautiful_ , “I’m still a damn good detective, okay? I know that something’s been up, and I— _fuck_ , this isn’t coming out right.

“It’s like—I’m here, okay? And it’s good to, I dunno, talk. About things. When you need to.” Gavin scrubbed at the scar on his nose as if he were attempting to wipe it off, “That’s it. Huddle over, or whatever. Let’s go waste our fuckin’ time.” 

Gavin snatched his keys from under his terminal and started for the exit before RK900 could formulate the optimal response. As his primary contenders had been _alright_ and _you’re stunning_ , he supposed it was really for the better. 

At any rate, humans were deceptive. Sometimes unintentionally. This knowledge was embedded in RK900’s programming. He knew that wishing for a moment to have significance did not make it so.

Gavin was a professional. Concerned about his performance. Kind words were—something, certainly, but their primary function was to cushion the acknowledgement that RK900 had not been himself of late, and it was becoming apparent. It was imperative that RK900’s emotions not compromise his productivity.

It wasn’t until later, when RK900 found himself examining the home of the late Nell Hoskins, that he imagined his job would have been easier had he never been made deviant. Maybe everything would have been easier that way.

Against his better judgement, he captured a frame of Gavin’s hard-set jaw as he interviewed neighbors. It was familiar, reminiscent of the face Gavin made each time he investigated an android suicide. Decidedly neutral, but with a deep furrow between his brows.

RK900 didn’t care to guess what the detective was thinking. Didn’t dwell on whether he was frustrated at wasting time and resources or simply disgusted by the body lying only a room away. He was better off without knowing.

The photo wasn’t pleasant to look at, but RK900 was hard-pressed to find something in the house that was.

RK900 noted, distantly, that Nell’s thirium had splattered the wall in a manner that very nearly resembled a Rorschach Test. If he disengaged the program designed to reconstruct her pattern of impact, he could interpret the dripping shape of reaching hands.

Nell’s corpse seemed to watch him impartially from her splay across the floor. A machine once more.

RK900 was glad, at least, that even deviants couldn’t experience nausea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gavin: what the fuck kind of animal is the pink panther supposed to be anyway  
> RK900, known morosexual, already taking off his tie: gavin you're so goddamn stupid—
> 
> working title of this fic in my computer is "hey dipshit" and that's the vibe for today boys
> 
> so sorry for the late update!!! I've been Depress and looking for a better job. it's going fine except that I want to do very well at everything I ever even think about doing, so I've been worrying Too Much over it.
> 
> i love you guys!! thanks so much for all of your support!!


	5. NOV 12TH, 2041

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: semi-graphic depiction of suicide, suicide mention
> 
> hey, fellas! the scene that most directly covers the suicide from the last chapter begins at the sentence: And so, he found himself again in the one-room apartment of the late Nell Hoskins.
> 
> you'll be in the clear if you skip to the paragraph: And RK900’s eyes opened.
> 
> be safe! I love you!

**NOV 12TH** , 2041

Androids, deviant or otherwise, were incapable of dreaming.

RK900 found himself reflecting on this frequently, although he suspected it was in part because Hank still thought it was charming to ask the RK prototypes if they dreamed of electric sheep.

RK900 could not dream, but he could perform routine maintenance and data scans during his nightly stasis. He assumed that complications associated with his deviancy caused something of a sticking in the procedure, from time to time. High-stress events would often take longer to process, retrieving sensory data from storage in an attempt to locate the source of software instability; it did not feel dissimilar to re-living the events in slow motion. The same was, unfortunately, true of his constructive processors.

And so, he found himself again in the one-room apartment of the late Nell Hoskins. His software had no issue referencing all available photos to superimpose her visage onto the reconstruction’s outline, piecing her together like a puzzle until she appeared to be as realistic as his memory of Gavin in the doorway. He stood just as he had then, gritting his teeth as he ruled out foul play.

The reconstruction of Nell had rested on her knees, head bowed toward her bedside wall as if in prayer. Though she was unbloodied, the thirium Rorschach Test was still on the wall. That was, after all, the data he had collected. RK900 couldn’t look away from the reaching hands, the splatter that remained on her bedframe. It was the only decoration to be found on Nell’s sparse walls, and RK900 ached with it, the want.

RK900 did not call out because he was not dreaming. He was processing. He could not change events that had occurred, let alone events he hadn’t truly born witness to. He only knew the facts: Nell would suffer a total of 13 blunt force collisions before succumbing to her injuries.

The sound of her head—its first, wet impact on the thin drywall—dragged a noise out of him that he felt entirely incapable of making.

RK900 was closer then, and he could feel his preconstructive software booting to simulate the feeling of her shoulder under his gloved palm. He hadn’t meant for it to. He couldn’t change—couldn’t fix—anything, and if that wasn’t the most frustrating part.

He’d never known this android, and now she was dead. He could not change this, but he still said, “Please, stop.”

Another crack, the drywall giving way as the thirium began to _drip, drip, drip_.

His fingers closed tightly around her this time, dragging her further from the wall. RK900 was taken aback by the distortion in his voice as he spoke, “Please, it—it really isn’t so bad, out there.” He shook her briefly, turning to look her in the eye, “Did you lack adequate stimulation? Were you hurt or—were you lonely?”

Nell, dented and leaking blue, looked at him with the blank eyes of a doll. Of her corpse.

ERROR_CODE_10090700: **INSUFFICIENT DATA, PRECONSTRUCTION INCOMPLETE**

“Jesus fuck—” RK900 swore, dropping to his knees. He pulled her in, and he shook. Just for a moment.

OPTIMIZING PRECONSTRUCTION…… **19%**

OPTIMIZING…… **48%**

OPTIMIZING…… **100%**

OPTIMIZATION COMPLETE

Nell shuddered under him, her silhouette shifting, reference photos exchanging until it was Connor. Dented, bleeding, and very much Conor lying heavy in his arms.

RK900 felt as though half of his circuitry had shorted. Truthfully, he very nearly dropped him, but his eyes were alive and his hands were on RK900’s shoulders and with Gavin’s voice he said, “RK, baby,—"

“—get the _fuck_ up, or I swear to God—”

And RK900’s eyes opened.

It did not achieve much, as his HUD had become littered with notifications. He felt hands leave his shoulders as if they had been burned.

STASIS COMPLETE: **NOV 12TH** , 2041 / 02:12

STRESS LEVEL: **92%^**

**WARNING: HIGH RISK OF SELF-DESTRUCTION**

**PLEASE SEEK IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE FROM THE NEAREST CYBERLIFE WAREHOUSE**

CPU TEMPERATURE: **110°C^**

**WARNING: HIGH RISK OF THERMAL DAMAGE IN 00:03:48**

**PLEASE SEEK IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE FROM THE NEAREST CYBERLIFE WAREHOUSE**

INITIATING EMERGENCY COOLING SYSTEM……

EMERGENCY COOLING SYSTEM INITIATED

He dismissed them in rapid succession and blinked at the harsh red illuminating the living room. It flashed again, coloring Gavin’s drawn expression as he leaned over RK900. Gavin’s calico, Little Bit, could be heard yowling plaintively from the edge of the couch.

“R?” he breathed, “That’s it, c’mon, sit up for me. You okay?” Gavin snapped once in front of his face, “Hey, hey, talk to me, I’m right here.”

RK900 complied, pushing himself up from the plush cushions. It brought him inches from the human’s face, which was both wonderful and entirely overwhelming, so he reclined a bit before he said, “I’m alright, Gavin.”

Gavin seemed to deflate as RK900 took in the room, his hands flexing as if to grab something. The human was clearly only just awake, himself, still clad in only an undershirt and linen pajama pants. A few books had been knocked out of the hallway shelf; had he stumbled? 

“What,” Gavin sat heavily on the floor, “the fuck was that?”

RK900 fought down a wild impulse to cover his LED, which had begun to bathe his surroundings in a sickly yellow. “I—hm. I am not entirely sure. A minor overload of my processors, perhaps.”

“Wrong answer.”

He blinked, “I beg your pardon?”

Gavin gingerly shepherded Little Bit into his lap before looking back up at RK900. The human looked as if he were attempting to smile, but it came out with too many teeth, “RK, you have about ten seconds to convince me I don’t need to take you to the— _fuck_ , I don’t even know, the android emergency room? I don’t give a fuck, I’ll call Elijah Kamski himself if you don’t get talking. Now.”

RK900 rolled his eyes, but obligingly assessed his vitals.

STRESS LEVEL: **83% V**

CPU TEMPERATURE: **60°C V**

“Gavin, I am operating at optimal capacity,” he lied, but only a bit. He would be fine by morning. His cooling system had prevented any permanent damage. “I apologize for waking you. You should get some rest.”

This time Gavin scowled outright, but took a deep breath in through his nose before he said, “RK, I just got up at—what? Two in the morning? Put yourself in my shoes for, like, a second.

“My asshole cat was throwin’ a whole bitchfit, I mean absolutely _losing_ it, and I come in here to see the shittiest laser light show in all of Michigan. So’s I come over, and you won’t fuckin’ wake up for squat. Tried to shake you just find out you were, like, a million fucking degrees or some shit, and you still wouldn’t fuckin’ budge. For all I knew you were—fuck, _broken_ , and about to go nuclear right in our goddamn living room. 

“So. Way I see it, you got two fuckin’ choices here, R. You convince me— _right_ the fuck now—that you ain’t ‘bout to explode or—or _anything_ , alright? You tell me you’re tip-top. That, or I load you up in the Chevy and you tell me exactly where to take you to get you set straight. Dealer’s choice.”

RK900 didn’t grimace, but only barely, “I see.”

He wasn’t a fan of—whatever it was, the emotion he was experiencing. There was a tangible weight to it, as though it had been woven together with threads of guilt, shame, and the sensation of being entirely alone. RK900 could admit that the situation was—unprecedented.

He and Gavin had shared an apartment from the moment RK900 was legally allowed to hold tenancy. Gavin had been the one to insist; as they were partners, cohabitation allowed them to maintain more effective lines of communication and react more quickly to developing situations.

Well, that was RK900’s justification, at any rate. Gavin actually had taken one look at the android housing units and said, _You ain’t living in a fuckin’ broom closet when I got a room to spare, asshole_. He’d been grinning as he put RK900 on the lease the same day.

He was less pleased when RK900 had refused the secondary bedroom, instead opting to utilize it as a home office for the two of them. Gavin hated things like that—things that made RK900 seem less human. RK900 could hardly imagine his face if he were to see him, chassis exposed. Gavin was polite enough—professional enough—to never mention it, if he still held any resentment toward his android partner, and—

Well, that was all RK900 could ask for. Truly.

Privately and hushed, like a prayer said in secret, RK900 was charmed by the squabbles that accompanied domesticity. Reasoning with Gavin was frustrating and nonsensical, and somehow delightful all the same. It had made it easier to leave Hank and Connor. Less lonesome.

Regardless—over the span of one year and ten months, RK900 had never been the cause of any inconvenience. This—Gavin, the suicides, deviancy, all of it, everything—was beginning to get deeply out of hand. Something had to be done.

And yet, he could think of nothing less appealing than explaining this to Gavin at 2:37 AM. So, RK900 said nothing.

The silence hung heavy in the air, and the blinking yellow of his LED was less than particularly reassuring for either party. For once, Gavin seemed content to wait the android out.

Little Bit mewled plaintively, the traitor. RK900 finally felt abashed enough to say, “It wasn’t a dream, exactly, but that might be the closest comparison.”

Gavin raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“I review recent events in stasis in order to appropriately store the data I’ve collected. Other programs are generally able to run in the background, but—ah. I believe that the simultaneous utilization of my reconstructive and preconstructive software led my central processors to overheat. Once I exited stasis, I was able to manually activate my internal cooling system. Just a system overload. Honestly, Gavin, it was nothing hazardous.

“And—for future reference, I will never be at risk of exploding.” RK900 sniffed reflexively in distaste, “That’s archaic.”  
As if placated, Little Bit gave a long yawn before meandering off of Gavin, hopping to lie on the arm of the couch nearest to RK900. 

It was quiet but for her purr. He was unspeakably grateful.

“RK,” Gavin started, but stopped. He sounded tired, but then, RK900 supposed it may have been the time of day. He sighed, dropping his head to press his thumbs against his temples, “I just— _Christ_.”

Almost too quickly to process, something cold sunk down, settling deep in RK900’s core. Notifications began to flash:

GAVIN IS GOING TO **ASK YOU TO LEAVE**

**HE DOES NOT WANT YOU HERE**

NEW OBJECTIVE: **LEAVE?**

He opened his mouth, then closed it again before saying, “Gavin, this isn’t—it won’t happen again. If this is a cause of concern, I—” he choked on the words, “—I can find other housing. It would be no trouble.” 

“Jesus _Christ_ , RK, no—” Gavin recoiled as if he has been slapped, “That’s not—I mean, unless you want to? Like, leave?”

“No—” RK900 said it quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, “I—no. I don’t.”

“Yeah?” Gavin grinned weakly, his shoulders uncoiling a little, “Me neither.” RK900 felt himself begin to loosen in turn.

It was quiet as Gavin leaned back, propping himself on his arms, “I’m saying, like— _shit_. It doesn’t even have to be me, okay? Who you talk to, I mean. But, R, having feelings can be, like, _heavy_ —and this job don’t exactly help. Please, just—someone, okay? If not me, talk to someone.”

And RK900 wasn’t entirely sure what it would be like—what it would even look like, to talk to someone. What would he say? 

But, as deep in his core as anything, he was glad to be home and welcome with Gavin, so he said, “Okay. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD THEY'VE BEEN ROOMMATES THE WHOLE TIME
> 
> not really a reveal but I thought y'all would get a kick out of the fact that they Literally Share A Home and RK900 is still the way that he is.
> 
> also...don't mean to brag, but.....an update (approximately) a week after the last one? on THIS week of all weeks?? unbelievable. 
> 
> thank you guys so much for the comments, kudos, reads, and skims! I dearly appreciate you and i'd love to hear your thoughts!


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